To be Alone
by ZeDancingHobbit
Summary: When old enemies strike, ten-year-old Sybbie must grapple with the prospect of being totally alone, and the Downton family must try to keep Branson alive. Branson!whump. Canon. T for language and some blood.


**Yes, I know. Just what I need. Another story. Shhhh. I couldn't leave this alone. Branson and Sybbie are so adorable omg. So she's ten in here. Just to let you know. It's canon as far as I can tell. I still have a few episodes of season 4 to get through so yeah. **

**I don't own Downton Abbey. I just like causing its characters grief. **

**oOoOo**

"Come on, Da," Sybbie cried, kicking up her heels as she ran across the bright green grass. Her curls bounced in the sunlight, the red ribbon that had once held them away from her face long since disappeared.

Her father laughed, hands in his pockets as he sauntered along behind her. "And just where are you taking me?" he questioned, squinting in the bright spring sun. Sybil had pulled him away from his duties, begging for a walk to show him "something so brilliant that no one else knows about oh please Da it'll be amazing!", and of course she pulled the pity puppy eyes that he never could and never would be able to resist. So he found himself in the bright sun, not regretting for a moment leaving behind his dull papers and contracts.

"You'llll seee," she called in a sing-song voice over her shoulder. She paused, kicking off her shoes and peeling off the white socks she wore before bouncing away again. "Oh, it's too nice for shoes."

"Just don't get your feet cut," Branson warned his daughter, but didn't have the heart to refuse her the small freedom of bare feet. He toyed with the idea of taking off his own shoes, but decided against it in the end, not wanting to have to carry them.

Sybbie scoffed at the idea, but let out a happy squeal as she approached the cool, dense trees. "We're almost here!" she cheered, hopping from foot to foot like an overeager bird. Her white dress was nearly blinding in the sun. Branson smiled as he watched her. At ten years of age, she was just as headstrong and nearly as pretty as her mother. And just as wonderful.

"All right, I'm coming," he said, quickening to a slow jog. "Show me this mysterious sight."

Sybbie shrieked in ecstasy and disappeared into the trees, popping out every now and then to hurry him along. Branson wiped the sweat from his brow, thanking his lucky stars for the shade.

"Ta daaa," Sybbie sang out, waving her hands at a small wooden hut nestled in the trees. It was pretty small, with two windows on either side of a door with a wooden slat sandwiched in the handle to keep the door shut. It looked a bit run down and dusty, but with a bit of care he was sure it would be a fine fort for his daughter and George, her partner in crime.

Tom's eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. "Ah, what's this?" he questioned, coming closer.

"I found it the other day when I was looking for flowers," Sybbie explained, gazing at the shack with pride. Her fingers traced the grain of the wood carefully. "What do you think, Da," she questioned, "D'ye think I can use it as a fort or something?"

"I don't see why not." Branson shrugged his shoulders and ruffled her mop of curls fondly. "I'll talk to your grandfather. Doesn't look like it's been used in a while."

"Yay!" Sybbie cheered, rising on tiptoe to plant a kiss on her father's willing cheek. "Come on, let's go inside!" Without waiting for her father's approval, she wiggled the slat from the handle and opened the creaky door, coughing slightly as dust forced its way into her lungs.

Branson had to stoop slightly to fit under the doorway, but a quick glance about told him it was perfect for the children. A bucket and two small barrels stood in a corner along with a dusty rug and a bicycle wheel. A bird's nest was clustered in the ceiling, bird droppings on the floor attesting to the fact,  
and the thin smell of mildew pervaded the place, but it was nothing a good cleaning couldn't solve.

Tom moved to a window, using a finger to trace through the grime, and peered out. As his eyes settled on a pair of figures just visible through the trees, his smile faded and a sour feeling enveloped his stomach. "Sybbie, stay in here," he ordered, crossing to the door.

"What? Why?" she asked. She made a move to follow him, but he barred her way.

"I mean it, Sybil," he warned. "Stay here. Don't make any noise."

Her brow furrowed. He had used her full name, which meant serious business. "Da?" she whispered, fear starting to creep into her gut.

He gave her a reassuring smile that never reached his eyes. "Just stay here." And with that, he turned amd walked out of the hut, shutting the door behind him. His hands found his pockets once more as he approached the men, who, upon seeing him come closer, drew nearer.

One of them had a shock of fiery red hair on his head and wore plain clothes, brown and gray, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. The other was taller, thinner, with a menacing face and dull brown hair, dressed in the same manner of clothing.  
"Well, well, well," Branson said, his nonplussed atritude a far cry from his inner turmoil. Brandon McDonne-" a nod to the red haired man- "and Michael Douglas." Branson shook his head. "Never expected to see you here, now did I?"

A mean smile drew over Brandon's features. "Tom Branson," he greeted him, "when I heard you'd taken up with an earl I thought for sure I'd gone daft. 'Never,' I said, 'not Tom. He'd never stoop to't. But sure's you did, as I'm standin' here."

Tom stood stiffly as he was appraised, willing his eyes not to flicker to the hut. He could not draw attention to his daughter.

"Look at those clothes," Brandon whistled. "Never thought I'd see you takin' up airs like that."

"Come on, Brandon," Branson said, "there's no airs here."

"Oh really?" Brandon huffed. "Then I s'pose it's a lie you wed and bed that earl's whore of a daughter, then, eh?"

Branson's jaw tensed, his hands curling into fists. "Don't you dare," he growled. "Don't you dare talk about her."

Bradon let out a barking laugh. "So t'is! And that's where that little brat came from, I s'pose."

Damn. He'd seen Sybbie. Branson closed his eyes as Brandon pushed past him with a breezy air and peered through the grimy window. "Hello, sweetling," he cooed in a high falsetto. "Da's just having a talk with some friends, is all." He drew away and picked up the spar of wood, setting it firmly in place and smoothly locking her in.

With a angry sigh, he turned to face Branson once more. Gone was all pretense of happiness. Gone was the illusion of friendliness or goodwill or cheer. Here was only deep, deep anger. His eyes flared with it. "You left us, Tom," he snarled. "Left the fight. You left me to prison and Michael to have his fingers cut off by these bloody English." He spat derisively on the ground. "You left us for what? Some cushy estate and a slut? Deserted your countrymen for comfort!"

Branson swallowed, but offered no words of defense. He knew nothing would help his case with the rageful redhead.

Sybbie's fearful face appeared in the window, and he shook his head to signal her away.

"Well," Brandon sighed, "I am very sorry. I am, indeed, because we were such friends. But-" In one fluid motion, he drew the rifle from his shoulder and aimed it at Branson's chest. Before a word could be said or an arguement made or a plea pled, he pulled the trigger and a spot of red appeared on Branson's previously white shirt.

Sybbie's scream echoed through the air, and Branson drew a shaking hand to the wound. His legs turned spongey, and he collapsed to his knees "Let me out!" Sybbie shrieked, hammering on the glass with her fist. "Let me out, please! Oh, Da!"

Brandon whipped his head to Sybbie, a murderous look in his eyes, but Michael placed a hand on his shoulder. "They'll have heard the gunshot. Dammit, Brandon, you said there'd be no killing!"

"I lied," Brandon snapped. "Seems a shame to leave the brat alive and kicking..."

But Michael was already pulling him away, eager to keep his neck from swinging, and the most Brandon could do was spit in Branson's direction. And then they were gone, leaving naught to show they were there but Sybbie's sobs and Branson's bleeding body.

He drew in labored breaths, the air not seeming to be entering his lungs properly. His chest was on fire, a dull ringing in his ears, and the world swam before him. His eyes slowly closed, opened, tiredness descending upon him like a wave.

"Da, Da!" What was...Sybbie! Branson's eyes snapped open-he hadn't realized they were shut-and he struggled to reach her. His legs wouldn't cooperate, they were so weak, so he had to settle for a painful crawl. The window she had been flinging her fist against shattered, sending pieces of shiny glass hurtling into the air. Bracing himself against the wall, Branson flung his arm up with a groan and managed to shove the spar from its perch, letting the door burst open. He slid down the side of the house, suddenly feeling soft hands pawing his face and chest as all strength left him and there was only pain, pain, pain.

Hard-won sight showed him she was crying, and her right wrist was heavily bleeding-the broken window, his sluggush brain told him. "What do I do, what do I do?!" she sobbed, her hands fluttering just over his crimson chest.

"Syb-Syb-" he stammered out through uncooperating teeth with a tongue as useful as a sausage. His hand fumbled for her cheek, suddenly desperate to touch his child's skin. His body was wracked with coughs, and he gasped for air that wouldn't seem to come.

Sybbie wept all the harder as she cradled his hand in hers, but she released him to tear a large strip from her previously white dress, now covered in red. She wadded it up and pressed it to the wound, causing an agonizing fire to blaze and threaten to consume him. He arched his back and let out a loud groan through clenched teeth, black spots dancing in front of his vision.

Sybbie sobbed, apologizing over and over again as she held the already red bundle against him.

"Syb," he gasped out, "you h've-you h've t' go the house-"

Shaking her head, she ardently refused, almost hysterical at the prospect of leaving him.

"You h've t' get your gr'ndfather," he stumbled over his words. A numbness was overtaking his body, a fiery blank aching, making it hard for him to talk.

Sybil scrubbed her face, grabbing her hand and setting it firmly over the wad of cloth. "I'll be right back," she promised. Just before she stood up, he grabbed her hand.

"I love you," he whispered, and her face crumpled.

"I love you too," she choked out, and then she was gone in a flurry of red and white skirts and bare feet.

Branson was glad she wouldn't be there to see him die.

**oOoOo**

**Reviews are love for poor Branson **


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